Touch
by LitBlueEyed
Summary: "Maybe we are them—the superheroes in Garfield's comic books. Who says that we're not? Reality? How many times have we outgrown reality? I can heal. She has super strength, Chase can connect to people, to animals, Vic is smart, and you, you, Richard, can fight!" This is a story of healing, reconciliation, and becoming of something much greater than colors on a comic book page.
1. Chapter 1

**Maybe we are them—the superheroes in Garfield's comic books. Who says that we're not? Reality? How many times have we outgrown reality? I can heal. She has super strength, Chase can connect to people, to animals, Vic is smart, and you, you, Richard, can fight-more so than the rest of us-for all of us!"**

Author's Note: This is a story of mine that I wanted to tell through the Teen Titan characters. This is a story of healing, reconciliation, and becoming of something much greater. But what are they to become? Do the bright reds, blues, and yellows of the Teen Titan comics color their destinies? Boy, that was cheesy. Anyway, I hope to be updating frequently! Also, this is my spin on the Teen Titans.

Character Sheet: Koriand'r "Starfire" (15), Richard Grayson(15), Rachel Roth (12), Garfield Logan (11), Victor "Vic" Stone (18)

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Touch

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Part One

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Chapter One

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_Extra important information: Driver's suit: The suit of armor Starfire wears. A driver straps themselves in and takes on the legs of the robot, controlling its movements with her own. Her arms are free for fist to fist contact. With this suit, she is six and a half feet._

No weak points, no dysfunctions, and no flaws to the movement. The suit was layered and thick. To the driver of the suit, its etched surface deteriorated by the licking of concrete that eroded away its metal shine, I had gone after. Ricocheting off the faded brick and fire escapes, I had held the pursuit of the being, we hastily crisscrossing the levels of stairs. Its heavy stride shook the apartment ledge, it to hiss at rising of tremendous weight banging against the rising platforms.

A slew of search lights fanned and riddled against the silver bot running away from me. Despite its sudden jerks and swings to avoid my offense, I had scanned its back, sure that the off switch would appear beneath the silvery extension beneath the back that should resemble a shoulder blade. Lack of time had swept my opportunity away. Its sudden maneuver swung a metal fist at my stomach, I to dodge, flip back, harness energy from the gravitational force, hit the ground, and launch back, swinging my leg up and over, hurdling my body through air, quickly closing the space in between me and the robot.

Despite the smog that shrouds my memory now, I remember a grim smile knotting the corners of my lips before the sweet intensity of the impact, my kick across the suit's chest. Bending to break, it tumbled across the wide spanning rooftop. Wind blew and there was a violent spray of metal nuts and bolts. To the edge, it bashed the iron gated fence that hissed at such impact. Caught in the stiff web of metal, the artificial intelligence writhed.

I prowled to the mechanism fashioned as a cruel woman: curved body, ironed fists, and armored jaw and headline. Arched above, I shoved my fist to its chest, notching my fingers around the hole of my heel print, slowly lifting the being against the fence. Its head had slung in defeat and carelessly rolled to examine the sky. City lights flashed; I remember their fingertips swinging across the android's face, highlighting the very edge of its cheek. Sirens screeched, a man on a megaphone called, and helicopters clapped, chopping the tempo of chaos. Green blazes shot from the lime green fires beneath the high rise. I remember those blazes fluttering past my face like fireflies, sick and misplaced in a scene of hell.

But now, I am unsure of which is louder: the memory of _her_ screaming—the thrashing, the shattering of glass, the fall—or the silence now. It overwhelms the eardrum in such a way that it becomes an eerie buzzing, drowning the room with such emotion as if angst and sorrow overflow from where we sit, now observing the blinking lights of the emergency room.

Upon the rooftops, I had felt the hysterical chain of heartbeats hyped with vehemence pulsing through my grip locked upon the artificial intelligence's chest—her chest—and saw the slow crawl of sinister crimson seep onto my hands, then arms.

That was then. Now, they wait. The blinking lights of the waiting room, the sudden lime flickering caresses the boy's cheek and gleam in the gloss of his empty stare, he too distraught and too isolated to lean upon Rachel. Rain like pellets upon the hood of his jacket, his small hands tug upon the rim of his black scarf and tenderly pull its fabric to cover his bloody nose and charred chin. Rachel slumps over beside him, brow bleeding, arm distorted, purple fill overflowing from her cornea and seeping into the rims of her eye sockets. Despite the weight she holds to appease the pain in her arm, she presses her fists into her black jacket. Yet, the bloodiness overturns the dark pigment to sinister. Her neck arches forth, allowing her short, scraggly, unkempt hair to sway forward, masking her face.

They're stoic.

Slowly, Vic eclipses the light, becoming a nearing silhouette in my vision field, carefully pushing a stained rag of shredded corners through the space between us. Disobeying orders and failing to preform is seven and three kicks to the face. The Commander insures it.

"Hold still." Upon my skinless forehead, the heaviness of the rag sits with a sting, and then liberates a three pronged stream of substance, overflowing off my brow at Vic's squeeze. The cool of the substance counterbalances the searing burn etched in by concrete, but I am drawn to the red fusion, dripping into my eyes. I look down.

It's blood.

"Becoming human, are you?" Rachel mutters. Her voice is cold—what else am I to expect? Her eyes tremble against her thrashed knees, her black tights in webbed rips to expose them. She lets the moment pass, feeling the weight of Vic's gaze upon her cheek. I follow Vic's hand as he takes Rachel's and places it upon her knees. Her cringing pacifies and she hesitantly looks to him. A blink takes her there.

"Garfield tells me you can heal."

"Garfield says a lot of things."

"From the comic books, I take it? Doctor Mann," Vic stands, unraveling his hand for the passing man to shake. Though, he looks at me. "Going to address me, son?" Through his green tinted spectacles, he peers above, his brows raised, his mouth tightened into a grim scowl. His eyes wane on the bridge between boredom and disdain. "Not leader enough to take responsibility for your team?"

"We're not a team."

"Then, who am I to report on the charge of murder." She's dead. That's it then.

"Hmmm." He stoically scratches his chin and tilts his head as if silently amused. "That's interesting."

"You find this all amusing?"

"No. Your tone as it is now. It hinges with some emotion and emotion is not something I associate with you, Mr. Grayson."

"Cadet Grayson."

"In spite of your talent, the title of Cadets is only given to one who surpass the age of sixteen." I dislike his voice. He continues, "You do not have a death on your hands—yet. By these scans," to the wall, he points a clicker that triggers some sort of projection upon the brick wall, beaming from a device above. He points. "We see formation of this dream here. It is given that she is exiting the third chamber of sleep."

In the display, the rambunctious friction of excited pixels dies in fuzziness. It contorts to resemble a lime sea of interchanging cosmos, toppling over themselves like waves. I feel as if I had just been given an important piece of information: a memory of another maybe presenting itself before us; a window into the mind of a stranger.

"T-These a-are h-her dreams?" Garfield says.

"The formation of one—like I said." Slowly, he pulls his hand to his roughened cheek, then tucking his chin into the palm now shaped into a fist. He stares longer at the projection, and then slowly turns back to them. "I must file this report," he says, "excuse me."

"Doctor Mann." Vic hesitantly calls, he looking left to right to scan for privacy—as I would imagine—before approaching.

"She's no older than fifteen, if that is what you wanted to ask me."

"She looks that way. But I wanted to talk about her punch. She shattered walls, so I scanned her metal suit she was wearing and it was relatively light in contrast to my estimation."

"Your estimation?"

"The current one is that she is not of this world like the alien-like supers before her."

"Was it the super strength, the light throwing, strange language, or the flight that conveyed this theory?"

"It was her appearance. The glow in her eyes and the damage it dealt onto this shard of lamppost here." From his bag, he pulls out the claimed object, "It combusted at her strike and there is no trace of radioactivity or any other substance that could of enhanced the chemical make up a human would have to provide this power. The power—it's natural. An innate gift."

"Perhaps we are to do more research."

"We? Sir—it would be an honor."

"As in the detective agency."

"But haven't I proven myself with this—"

"Such reliance should be given to the more credible, yes?"

"I guess."

"I have scheduled you and the rest of the work group for cleanup duty tomorrow morning. Six o' clock. Seventy-eight Lester Square. I want the debris gone and the brick repaired. Fires were put out last night. Yet, ashes remain. I want them cleaned too. Do I have your understanding? Now, excuse me."

I look to see Doctor Mann passing Vic who watched him go, he to momentarily return to some photos he grasped in his gloved hand and to stare into the pavement's rupturing. Covering the ground, shattered pieces of the metal suit and further debris catch the extreme light of the high rising lamp posts that faintly placed highlighted color into the graywashed, grim scene.

I push the dampened rag to my forehead.

"We're not a team?" Rachel's voice is dry, cold.

"I said I would find you two a home and I have. I am not responsible for you and Garfield anymore."

"When did you come to that conclusion?" There was a pause, "When you went after her? When you threw the first punch? When you left us vulnerable?

"Stop it."

"When we got hurt? When were thrown against the wall? When you realized you couldn't protect us?

"Stop it!"

"You think you're so heroic—and maybe you are—but when you fail just once, you give up everything. So when was it? When she hit the ground? When we saw blood? When she cried for help?"

"SHUT UP!"

"Shut up to the both of you!" Vic interfered. "Dammit! You're upsetting Gar." To the boy before the projection, the soft blond tousles of hair stealing the colors of the faint green running images, we look, he sinking lower into his scarf. His back is turned from us, but I see the rim of gloss and wetness in his eyes and I wait.

"R-Rachel can be useful."

Her scowl dims to solemnness, her mouth in a think line and her eyes slightly shifting against her knees, she rises halfheartedly—I can tell—and awkwardly places her hand on his shoulder after hesitating a moment or two. His face of a dazed expression rises from his scarf. She moves forward, raising her hand to his nose, he to cringe.

We wait in silence until the surgeon approaches forth.

From the scene, I look away.

"She and you will only get hurt."

"That's not a good enough answer-"

"Leave him alone, Rachel. It's been a bad day. Richard, give me your sweater," Vic outstretches his hand in front of me. "Give me your sweater, Richard." He hastily pulls at the hood and almost yanks the sleeves from my arms. The fabric snaps into his hands and he bends down to the boy's height.

"Feel the inside," Vic says, "This one will keep you warmer." He places his own in Vic's hands and he wraps his around Rachel's knees—I thought he would do something like that.

"There is a bathroom around the hall," I scan the ceiling. "Go wash up. Take Garfield with you and instruct him to do the same."

"Instruct?" She mutters. "You're talking fancy today."

"Just do it."

They leave and onto the space next to me, Vic sits.

"-Thanks-"

"I know you would have wanted to do the same." He says.

"I'm not their caretaker."

"Then, why do you take care of people?"

"Because I am left with no other option."

"You have plenty of options, Richard."

"Then what are they for this situation?"

"Do you want to hear my hypothesis?"

"Maybe I already know what it is."

"The girl-she's fifteen." He confirms.

A moment silences my voice, letting sound of the waiting room slip back in. "Do you hear her?"

"Hear what?"

"Her moaning-it passes the brick."

He listens for a moment. "It's faint."

"It's loud enough. Real enough. I thought she was just another escaped android from the Sevee's Factory. What else could be different?"

"It wasn't the motive that they were afraid of."

"Who?"

"Rachel and Gar. They were afraid of what came over you."

"And you?"

"I never get afraid anymore. I've seen this many times. I'm used to it."

"Use to what?"

"I'm used to that crazed look growing in the face of the trainees. I always thought that it was a monster inside that showed in the face when ready to possess the person. That desire to perform at whatever means necessary to get a pet on the back by Commander."

I let his words sit.

"I just thought you-the highest ranker-would be different."

"And what would make me different? To take her in as I did with Garfield and Rachel?"

"You have many options, Richard. Plus, she can handle herself, you know. I mean, look at us." He gave a puff of laughter. "All broken and bruised and bloody. I was actually scared for my life. You know that?"

"Yeah, I knew that." A grim smirk rises from my mouth though I tried to distract myself with the ceiling. "You wet your pants the minute she shattered the apartment wall."

"I am not too sure if that was fear or extreme excitement."

"You should probably figure that out, then."

The moment grew silent, dimming the moment back into coldness. I look to the fuzziness of the pixels fidgeting by the projection.

"After the damage we did to her today, she won't be able to fight back if confronted."

"And you? You look awful." He says.

"I'm fine."

"Are you?"

"Why not?"

"You are more careless than usual. That's our note to know that something's wrong."

"Our?"

"Gar, Rachel, and me."

"Look-" my voice is too stern, "if this is another way to pitch the 'team' plan, I don't want to hear it. I've been telling you guys this! I am don't want-"

"You work alone. Richard. That's what you say all the time whenever someone expresses concern for you! Look, you pick and choose what you want to hear. The obvious is always before you, but for some reason, you have trouble seein' it." Vic stands, his expression tucked into his jacket. His eyes sweep to the corner towards me, "I am going to find out more information about this girl. You should decide what you're going to do now-you, out of work for the while."

I found myself sitting the floor beside the boys' bathroom. At the cue of the little footsteps, barely enough weight above them, the door opens, slowly swinging outward, letting the florescent light of the room into the hallway. Beside the doors weight, Garfield stands, his head now tilting in slight confusion to why I am on the floor. I stand to meet him.

"I am going to take you and Rachel home, okay?"

Slowly, he nods, but his eyes droop to where his nose and his scarf meet. He unravels it from his neck, and speaks. "I got t-the bl-blood out. Like you-you i-instructed." Tenderly, he holds his scarf in his hands, fingers knotted together. The cuff of my jacket he wears, the leather stealing the light, falls over his hands. He looks up, his green eyes squinting at the brightness of the white halls and places the green fabric in my hands, "c-can you use it t-too?"

I admit…alone in my apartment, I placed the scarf on my chest that night. Those cries l I heard were human after al. And I don't even know her name.


	2. Chapter 2

**Maybe we are them—the superheroes in Garfield's comic books. Who says that we're not? Reality? How many times have we outgrown reality? I can heal. She has super strength, Chase can connect to people, to animals, Vic is smart, and you, you, Richard, can fight-more so than the rest of us-for all of us!"**

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Touch

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Chapter Two

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The morning pigeons, their feathers ruffled and askew, fester on the windowsill today. They carelessly peck at the steel bars separating them from the glass, hazy with white laced stains from the latest passing of mist. The ocean breathes it off during winter's approach. Though the high rises are too tall to look passed, I imagine that the water has been hitting the break wall as of late. I can hear them far off, maybe even inviting us to come see them. However, we haven't had a sunny day in weeks—maybe just glimpses of sunlight like the one that shines now, illuminating the grayness of the day. In a stripped pattern of shadows marked by those bars upon the window that intercept the light, I sit before its rays before the window.

It's been two months since.

Despite Mann's constant wading and hovering, his reluctant tongue expressing his reluctant nature, I have managed to stay in the hospital for the majority of those months, passing time before the blinking lights, becoming familiar with the green, yellow, and red. They flash when doctors are in service upon the patient. I've been in to see her a few times since, once while she was straddling the line of unconsciousness and sanity and other times when she was awake. I brought Garfield with me to the third time to ease the situation: the tension in her shoulder leaning away from me, her arms protecting her chest, the trembling of her lips, eyes, and brows, all components of her expression, clearly expressing her emotion.

They call her "Project 1215" or "Project Starfire"—after the superhero that Garfield was frantically fanning about, waving his comic book back and forth, to and fro as I tried to concentrate on statistics and further research upon the girl. Either there is nothing yet to study or the Forensic and Medical Branches are not releasing what they are finding.

Though, she has not spoken yet. It was my idea to keep a distance and Garfield's idea to keep my hands fastened behind me like hers when I saw her. While she slept, the doctor coerced that I was to examine her form, for guilt bringing punishment I assume, and that was when I noticed the silver band of clanking cuffs fastened around her scarred and bruise wrists, bridging her to the bed she lied upon. She slept at an odd angle, stomach upon the mattress, bonded hands beneath her midriff, legs crossed, head askew and pressed into her collarbone. Her chopped, messy hair and its redness curled from the sweat that plastered it against her neck and forehead. Quick twitches, shuffles, wincing, and murmurs told me other things about her.

She shares the human's anatomy. Although, her frame was rather small, the subtle carvings in her cheeks hinted a sense of malnourishment, and by the nurse's claim. Her ribs were traceable though the fabric of her hospital gown. Despite her ability to punch through walls, lift, and shoot, her arms resemble sticks wrapped in skin. No apparent mussel.

It was the same morning of the next week she had awoken. Despite the doctors' protesting, ten of the trainees nicknamed after creatures according to their talents like "Bumblebee" and "Wildebeest," escorted me into her room, they to be a border between us. We looked eye to eye for the first time since the scene with the search lights. We were once above the high rises and I know she was thinking about that too. She held a stern face then, her lips tucked, eyes wide, and brows pushed upward, head defensively turning to the wall. She heaved in and snorted out breaths. She wanted to go or at least defend herself better, but the chains keeping her pinning her to one place. By her movement although violent, she was very weak and resorted to fastening her arms around her chest… she did that often… whenever I was near… Often, she did not face me, but turned her cheek against the wall, maybe hoping it would absorb her.

I wished I could do the same thing.

Each hour, one trainee would leave until we were alone. However, a tinted window looked in, allowing observers to identify her behaviorisms, strength, and comfort level. And it seemed as if they were desperate for information of some kind. Anyway, to manage my own behavior and how it affected her, they attached a hidden earpiece which allowed a direct sound transfer from her heart monitor to my ear for me to hear. The longer I looked at her, the more her heart bet. Adrenalin, maybe, was readying for some kind of attack she would have to defend again. In her chamber, when I stood, her heart would beat violently. But, I didn't need some sort of device to tell me that. Despite the courage in her expression, I saw a child unfolding from her green eyes. They were like the green fireflies.

Through those tinted windows, however, I saw her banging her head repeatedly upon the concrete wall. After moments of it, she would pass out, awaken an hour after, and continue to bang her head. I didn't like it—I didn't like it all.

"Hi-Hi Person w-who can s-shoot light!" It wasn't before Garfield until we were officially introduced, he to tie his scarf over my wrists. Careful when walking in, I looked to her and slowly stepped away, turning to the window, minding the people who were probably watching, to show my bonded hands. The boy by my side, I stood in the corner.

"Do-Do you understand E-English?" He asks. I tell him that she does. "Well then, m-my name is-is Garfield. A-and this is Richard." He told her of how I had taken him and Rachel in from the streets after the series of tragedies left them as orphans. To the word, she subconsciously titled her head in question. He explained the term to her. Also, he told her how I had planned to do the same with her since no one else in the city had the credibility and bonds to repay damages—maybe he left that part out. Come to think of it, I hope he did. Anyway, it was unintentional what we had proven during the brawl. I admit that I had met my match as she had met hers.

"And you are sure that her powers are inadequate?" During that month, I was told to leave the room, but listened in anyway at the door.

"The boy did enough damage when dropping her from twenty-stories up in addition to the cruel slugging-fest upon the grounds. A few weeks has given her the ability to breath without a need for heavy machinery. If according to research, super strength, flight, and light throwing will be delayed for the next year."

"She will be powerless with the punch-happy boy? And you tell me they will balance each other? Look at what he did to her! Now, she has to be in our care."

"Doctor?" Vic says. "I was there on sight. I'm a first witness. So I can say that he didn't drop her."

"Oh, you're saying she wanted to fall? Bull shit, this looks like you're just defending your friend from prison."

"Maybe she thought she could fly."

"We have no other option. His family—they have the resources that the hospital and government cannot use without filing paperwork that would take four years to get through. She doesn't have the time. Not to mention how damage she has done to the city. That family can keep her controlled and safe from vengeful victims."

"He moved out months ago—into a dingy apartment."

"We are aware—it is being renovated."

"Commander Bruce won't take her in?"

"No—he did not clarify why. His son is still connected and financed by him—used to be the top of the squad and the receiver of the medal of honor his fourth year of training."

By my connections and authority, even at my age, I could keep her restrained and healthy. But, I didn't want to mention that part. I didn't mention anything, but hold her stare when we met with her that third time. Her stare would drift from the Garfield in mid-speech and to me. Quickly, her eyes would snap back. Her brows would furrow, then loosen as if she was straddling the line of hatred and vulnerability. She was positioned in such a way that exposed her heart—arms pinned behind her.

I've seen her through the tinted window and how she holds herself when she tries to walk when abled to do so. It's sloppy, she to pull one leg after the other, still managing to keep her back straight and chest up despite the pain of doing so. She pretends that she isn't in pain by arching her neck high and proud.

Though the glass is thick, I am sure she knows I am there watching because her heart doesn't beat as frantically when I see her in the hallways of the hospital now. I've watched her so much—she knows my face. I am familiar, hopefully no longer a threat. Then again, it's only been two months.

I'd never got her approval—of becoming a guardian—but the cadets are still coming to deliver her today. At their slow turn into the parking lot, their van's motor loud with muffling, those gray speckled pigeons fly away from my windowsill. As a last detail, I scan the room to find it clean, covered in the stripped pattern the bars' shadows cast before the beaming light of the gray morning. It's the spare, large enough to house her need for privacy. It's been what the doctors called "alien-proof." My room connects through the kitchen that sits between the two rooms. The staircase lifts from the kitchen and rises to meet the loft that overlooks the woodened and stained dining table supplied with insufficient chairs. Across, the main entrance sits and bisects the kitchen. That's clean too.

Steady, my hands secured behind my back, I walk to meet the team outside my apartment. They unraveling from the vans, ten cadets are properly dressed in the Jump's Police Department's uniforms and armed with various tranquilizers and stunners, they strapped around their thighs in hoisters, as well as guns secured in both their gloved hands. Although I stand before them, their sunglasses don't intimidate me. I see my reflection in them. Interesting. Lastly, the doctor steps out of the van, the alien by his side, her hands cuffed behind her back. Her shoulders stir.

"Mr. Grayson." He speaks, retrieving a recorder from his bag.

"Doctor Mann."

He places it to his mouth, "Monday, November Eighth, Two-Thousand and Twenty one. It is eleven in the morning exactly. No tardies caused by restraining, pinning, fighting, or coercing. Patient has come obediently." During his pause, I look to her. She upholds herself awkwardly; shoulders slouched, thighs exposed by the hospital gown curving inwards, knees pressing together, she, scowl-faced, looking to the ground.

"Conditions are fairer than usual. Sky still gray with a beam of sunlight. Details, details." He continues, eyeing me up, "Receiver Grayson, son of Primary Commander Wayne and heir to the agency, readies himself for questioning." He smacks his lips, then tucks away the device, clipping it on his belt. Warily, I watch him do it.

"Cadets one through six," he calls, "Scan the apartment." Through the readying flock of arm guards, he turns to me, demanding, "Walk with me." I am left to follow. "Remind me who I am dealing with." I looked to him, "because I see a teenaged brat trying to brush off a broken arm in a leather jacket. Just a want to be reflection of Mr. Wayne and why is it you who is to hold the girl and not the man himself?"

"Would you like to take the job from my hands, Doctor Mann?"

"Would I like to?" He pauses, "Yes, my hands were not red like yours. Not to mention whose blood they were red with. And now you look away from me as if embarrassed or guilty."

"Do you like to hunt for emotion in me?"

"Just in humans. So, no."

"Is that why you treat her like an animal? Cages, leashes, and escorts? "

"She is more human than you have proven to be. By her previous hostility, we are required to use maximum precaution to protect the population."

"Until she is delivered into stronger hands. I know the code."

"You take pride in it. But, might I remind you of your condition. Despite research, she could easily hurt you as you can easily hurt her. Under no circumstance do I want any offense to be dealt onto her. Not a hand, Mr. Grayson, or I shall have you in the fate you barely escaped with your little episode last month: jail." Though his steps stop, his voice continues, he turning to me. "Though, there is one thing I am impressed with, Grayson. And, that is your hands and how they are placed now." He notes the scarf wrapped around my wrists that Garfield lent me for the day.

"That is the boy's idea, however." He continues with his steps, "And you took this boy and the girl in? Once again, I shall admit, I am softened by those acts. So, I suggest you keep these influences close enough to learn from. Or is learning an ability you dropped when you rose above the rank of your age group?" Effortlessly, I hold back my tongue while glaring at him with dead eyes needless of a blink. I find us closing the space between the group and us, inching closer to the girl. She doesn't look up, but holds a scowl. The cadets return to her side and in the midst of the passing bodies, the Doctor smoothly turns back to me and hands me the keys as if he was a father giving his son a new car. That's a weird analogy. But it works, "You memorized the list of what she needs and when she needs them. So, are there any last questions, Mr. Graysons?"

I ponder, finally looking to her, "a name."

She is silent.

"1215. If that is all," the Doctor speaks, signaling, "I suggest departing. Despite the daily checkups, our work is done." The men like birds flocking to their nest, we stand in their midst until the van carries them away. Slouched, I look to her, she uncomfortably trying to hold her arms, disabled by her chains. Her fingers stiff upon her elbows, I hear chain hissing. Though, the lack of sound reminds me of the probable rate of her heartbeat, a thought I pushed aside.

"I would like to know your name—real name." I say.

Silence.

"Look, I am your guardian now," I knew those words would stir as much anger as it would if said to me, "I want to know your name as something to call you by."

Silence.  
"Look! I—"

"Starfire." Her head snaps upward and I find her eyes… I am silent and led to believe that I pushed a little too hard… her eyes never met mine again. And I let the moment pass, holding back my tongue. I beckon.

Nevertheless, I led her weary form and the limp it into the apartment, showed her the kitchen and her room, but did not enter it. A room is a space a stranger shouldn't violate. I just informed her of the bathroom that connected to it on the left and assumed she knew what a toilet was. I told her about the spare clothes in the drawer to the right against the wall if she ever wanted to change from the hospital gown. I could only imagine my shirts and pants in there though—maybe some of Rachel's blouses and a coat if lucky. She was small enough to fit in Garfield's clothes, for sure. Standing in the middle of the bedroom, she scans the ceilings and then watches me. Slowly, I shut the room's door.

"I-I'll have dinner ready at seven." I probably should have said something nice, but I didn't feel it come up on my tongue. A simple 'how are you?' I don't think that would be appropriate though.

She hid in her room the rest of the afternoon. When I strolled passed, I expected there to be a tinted window that would allow me to look in and check on her. But, I didn't have that luxury anymore, I remember. I'm fine with assuming that she, like Rachel during her first few days, is sitting on the foot of the other side of her doorway, listening to my footsteps. I try to lighten my weight upon them.

By six-thirty, I decide to get dinner started. However, the pantry was stacked with agency approved food. But, I looked for the pack of Macaroni and Cheese I hid in there. It would suffice if boiling water wasn't such a dangerous thing to do on a burner that liked to spontaneously combust every now and then. Luckily, I tinkered with the fire alarm to ignore the combustion by not screeching every time it happens and calling for the fire department to come. Come to think of it, maybe I should prepare my house for sudden green combustion. When the noodles are done, I dump the water, then stir the cheese, milk, and butter it all down.

By seven o' clock's come, I didn't expect that she would come out of her room. So, I left the bowl upon the counter for her to come and get when she would get hungry. That said, I lay upon my bed now, arms clasped over my head. I run my hands over my eyelids, hoping they would bring the will to sleep to come over my eyes.

I find myself running somehow—running on etches that resembled lines on a heart monitor that straddled the city, becoming staircases to trek up and climb. For a moment, the feeling of scaling the hissing fire escapes is fun—like how kids could climb trees or run up inclines to be at the top of the world waiting just above. Each step, each hiss, turns the feeling. Darkness swallows the moment—something eclipses the only light source. I look above, the towering buildings gone now, having a clear shot at a demon: it holds another by the neck.

I am holding her by the neck.

She writhes, desperately crinkling her hands around mine that grip her right to live—she, stories above the ground. She heaves, she huffs. She pants, she cries. She weeps, she bleeds. Her heart beats, he heeds. He listens. His eyes shoot wide. Her lips lock upon his mouth. Her tongue unfolds and wraps around his—borrowing his language before she falls.

She falls.

I fall.

I hit the ground.

I shoot up, wide awake now. It was a dream—it was a dream—those words aren't comforting no matter how many times I repeat them. It was a dream—no less real though. It was a dream—a recreation of a memory. I need air. I need water. In my bathroom that connects to my room, I splash my face. The coolness of the rushing water overruns the sweat and carried it down the drain along with the flow. In the mirror, I look to see the droplets remaining upon my cheek and how they shimmered in the florescent light above. It flickers impulsively—like it always does. Though, I can see my reflection in the mirror. My eyes are red as ever.

I look to the clock: Midnight.

A crash!

The sound of breaking glass ricochets off the apartment walls and I follow the echo into the kitchen and launch my hand to the light switch, the light to suddenly flash. The flash—by the great intensity blinds me too. She falls off the chair she balanced herself on. Thud! Amongst the spill of shattered plate bits upon the tile, she hits the floor landing on her wrists bonded in front of her upon her crotch. Her weight crushes them so, yet she bites on her lip to silence a whimper. Away from me, she slowly scoots back to the corner away from the mess. She leaves behind a small trail of blood. I look at it. I look at it gravely.

She still wears her hospital gown.

Her eyes lock on mine and I cannot bring myself to break away from their hold. Slowly, I drop to my knees and delicately pick up the shattered pieces of plate she dropped and feel her eyes upon me, bonding my ability to act freely and without being afraid of misplacing my movement. I find myself standing outside her hospital room again, looking at her, she glaring back, knowing I'm there. I reenter reality then. The floor clear, I put the pieces in the trash—my back turned—exposed. Though, I let it be—be exposed. I take a deep breath and peak over my shoulder to find her eyes once more.

Although she beckons warily, I walk towards her. She holds her breath, tucks her face into her chest, and makes a whimper as if I were to hit her. Her heart beats, my heart beats. She takes violent breaths; I make the same mistakes when pulling for the pick in I found in my utility belt still fastened around my waist. She shuts her eyes, I push myself to keep mine open, getting ready to embrace the punch heading my way. I insert the pick into the handcuffs and suddenly, they come undone.

They fall to the ground.

A clank echoes off the tile and walls. I listen for a moment.

The moment hushes itself. Noise dies. The room drains itself. She looks up as I rise to my feet once more. I open the cabinet for another plate and serve it with a new helping of macaroni and cheese after reheating it first. The intervals of the beeping time the moment: two minutes we waited. From the corner of my eye, I see her still pressed up against the corner, her fatal hands free. At the final beep of the microwave, I retrieve her plate and walk towards her, careful of my feet and how hard they hit the ground. A heart beat can channel from the owner and reach another within the vicinity of fifteen feet. I minded what a footstep would do to an alien stuck upon the ground for the first time. I place the plate in front of her.

"I let an eleven year old boy introduce me—I don't think that is quite proper of a guardian—person to do." I observe her eyes, "My name is Richard. And from the way you fought, I know a lot about you. From the way I fought, I know that you know a lot about me too. I don't want to remember that though. I want to learn and re-learn who you are—that's all."

With that, I stand. I walk away. "We call the food Mac and Cheese. It's very common amongst most earth households. Please eat, Starfire."

"You wish not to bind me?"

I shake my head and made my way back to my room. I repeated her name three times that night. Maybe even a forth.


	3. Chapter 3

**Maybe we are them—the superheroes in Garfield's comic books. Who says that we're not? Reality? How many times have we outgrown reality? I can heal. She has super strength, Chase can connect to people, to animals, Vic is smart, and you, you, Richard, can fight-more so than the rest of us-for all of us!"**

* * *

Touch

* * *

Chapter Three

I come awake at the sound of sirens. Their howling comes at a distance and as it enters into a near velocity, it swings violently against the brick walls that hold the street apartments together. The sound triples in intensity. It's a common ringing throughout Jump. I listen as those sounds fade into the distance and stare at my ceiling while my vision refocuses. Though, not much color reenters my sight. Just black, a little less black, gray, and a little lighter gray fill the scene. I note the grimy texture of the rust dabbling ceiling.

It was a better night—the best in the week she's been here. She slept soundly, yet I feel awful for some reason—reasons I will probably overanalyze and find out later. Maybe it has to do with the daily doses of doctors swarming the place. Every day, morning and night, doctors would show up and stick around, expecting me to entertain them with small talk when I clearly have no new information from the last few hours to tell them. I don't do small talk.

The sirens sound again and I wonder what Starfire would think of them and how they never seem to fade from hearing even when they are gone. Maybe it's because the tune is like a continuous song stuck on the same two notes. Wee and Woo. Those two notes I learned to associate with crime. It never leaves the city, sirens always sound, and the people question if the cadets are even doing anything to help rid the burglars, thieves, and occasional mad scientists. We've gotten a few of those lately. Yet, I am beginning to think that too—especially after my stunt months ago.

My phone rings.

"Hello."

"Yo, man, we're trying to find the street to turn off of."

"Where are you now?"

"Birmingham Lane."

"Just park there. I will come get you—it's a hard place to find."

"Hey!" I hear muffling in the background, "I-If she's Starfire, then d-does that m-make R-Richard Robin?"

"Garfield, I'm trying to use the phone!"

With that, I hang up, lazy, dropping the phone to my thigh, unveiled from the sheets, exposed to the cold air. With the strength driven by the bulk of a breath, I slowly shuffle through my sheets and place my feet on the ground—it's a cold ground like any other ground. I push through the pain of soreness built in my back and shift my weight upon my heels as I arched forward, now trying to stand. From my view supported by my stance, I look to the small piece of sky hanging above the adjacent building complex. It's a gray morning—again.

From the pile of clothes before the windowsill, I withdraw my red jacket. Coming out of my room, I push my heavy arms through the sleeves and jerk the fabric of the collar, swishing the hood over my head.

"Good morning, Mr. Grayson."

"Doctor Frank."

"Would you know the location of the key the door's locked with?"

"Yeah, I gave it to her to have." I busy myself with opening the cabinet for a pop tart to eat on the way. Last one.

"Oh—this makes things inconvenient."

"I'm stepping out for a few. Will you be here?"

"Alone? With her? Uh, yes. Yes, I guess so. But, are you sure there's no spare key?"

"No spare."

With morning weariness, I walk out the front door to find myself wrapped in cold weather. I step down the apartment staircase, careful not to trip on the steps my eyes can't exactly recognize yet, and start for the main road across the parking lot. It's quieter than usual. No mothers leashing their children or loud talkers on their cellphones. There're no honking, no cussing, and no screeching breaks—just the scattered ruffling of crinkling, dry leaves that stir with the wind. I still find it impressive how the agency was able to buy out all the housing contracts of all my neighbors in such a short amount of time. I don't plan to question it. I would want to leave to.

I take a bite out of my pop tart and rub my runny nose on my sleeve. Sleep's been rare. I am less focused and a lot weaker, a bad thing to be in this situation. I feel my guard slipping, my vulnerability rising, and my swings and punches at the punching bag losing intensity. For that reason, I lock my room at night—just as she does. Because she has a tendency to mirror me, I know I shouldn't' switch the latch on my door. Because of the familiarity we have, she takes into account how I react and somewhat mirrors it. Back on the streets, when I threw the first punch, she threw the second. When I stepped back, so did she. When I sat still the many times in the hospital, she sat still before me. So, if I become distrusting, how can she ever trust me? But, when did I ever want her trust?

Through both sets of locked doors, I still can still hear her whimpering. Last night was better mostly because I didn't have to force myself to ignore it or tell myself over and over again how there was nothing I could do to help. However, she finally slept. I finally slept.

"Yo, Richard!" I hear from the other direction. "So lost in thought you didn't see us?" Victor laughs from the white sonata, the two others behind him. "And did ya sleep in your clothes? Those are the same from yesterday." He comments, scanning my jeans, shirt, and sweater—there is that same stain on my jeans. Dammit. "You look tired, man."

"Just not getting the best of sleep." As we walk the way back to the apartment, I look to Rachel and Garfield, "The place looks a lot different from when you guys were there."

"Is t-the loft couch s-still t-there?" Garfield says. Rachel is rather quiet.

"Loft is still there. Couch has been replaced."

"Why?" Answer: Sharp edges—shouldn't say that.

"Because the Cadet Agency didn't like the fabric," Vic answered.

"B-But it was s-so soft."

"Here kid." I hand him his scarf.

"Y-You d-don't n-need it?"

"I've had it for long enough."

There is a period of silence, we to walk the winding to my apartment. "How is she?" Vic asked, taking out a recorder in likeness to the Doctor's.

"We're doing this now?"

"It's the doctor's orders." He holds the device up to my chin. Reluctantly, I speak into it. "November fifteenth, Two-thousand and twenty one. I-uh-think it's a Monday. Could be a Tuesday. Her condition hasn't changed much since last night if the doctors are wondering."

"Mind the sass."

"Uh, she's staying in her room for most of the day. Uh, she slept a full night yesterday. No beams, no flight, no super strength—yet. She's been walking more often, I've noticed. I'm not too sure if that's because of natural process or another alien ability to regenerate strength. Still don't know a name."

"I-It's Starfire." Garfield says.

"No, it's not Garfield—that's a comic book character."

"Comic book character made real!"

I ignore him as we approach the apartment. In process, Vic tucks his voice recorder into his bag and the rest of the chattering falls behind me as I open the door after jabbing the key into its lock between the metal bars a few times. There Frank is again, probably given up on trying to get through a door locked to keep him out. He repacks his needles and other forms of treatments I clearly can't recognize. I think that's a shot. I'm banking on the fact that that's a shot.

"Oh hello there, Mr. Grayson."

"Doctor Frank."

"I'm afraid she won't be waking anytime soon. Are you sure there is no spare? The Doctor or Commander didn't give you a spare that you could have possibly tucked away somewhere for safe keeping? Like a piggy bank or—"

"No spare."

"Alright then. I will send officials over this afternoon in addition to tonight's officials later this evening."

"As expected." I retrieve four glasses from the cabinet and head to the sink to fill them with water. At the loosening of the handle, the sink spits a violent spray of liquid—water I hope—and I run the glasses under it. It looks fine—no lead. Clear water. To the table, I go, set down the glasses, gesturing the others to sit. Amongst their chatter, I find myself dabbling with the dishrag on the countertop as the others fill the space of the small kitchen. Beside me, they sit, watching the man at the opposite side of the kitchen draw up his brief case. Their stares turn blank at Frank, now awkwardly realizing his audience of four children. He saunters out.

I hear him say something like 'thank you for your time' as I examine my hands against the wood and how the wetness of my fingers casts a frost upon the surface at my print. The door shuts suddenly, sounding the metal framing to hiss.

"Where's the key?" Vic asks.

I slide it over to him across the table.

"You didn't give it to him why?" Rachel inquires.

"A lot of reasons."

"They are just here to help." Vic says. After a moment paces, Rachel looks to Vic who takes the key in his hand. His hold is gentle as he carefully observes the neck of the blade. Over that neck, his fingers fold. His chin raises, his eyes returns to Rachel's, and together, they nod.

"What's going on?"

"Rachel thinks she can—" Vic says, "She can help."

"She can help?" I repeat—it wasn't a question—putting down my cup of water, half empty.

"Yeah," Rachel mutters. "I think I can."

"Can you? Or has Garfield told you that you can."

"D-Does i-it matter?"

"Yes, Garfield," I stand to clean out my cup in sink, "it matters."

"B-But why?" He follows up. I ignore him, but he asks again. "Why? W-Why does it m-matter w-what I said to R-Rachel."

"Look," I continue to wash the glass, "I'm just saying that it isn't like Rachel to—."

"Why wouldn't it be her idea?" Vic asks.

"Look guys, it's the morning. Let's not do this again."

Rachel answers before I could, "I know I don't have much confidence, but I really think I can help this time. Garfield's arm is all healed up from tripping in the matter of days I—"

"No, Rachel."

"What?"

"You are not going near the person!"

"H-Her n=name is Starfire!" Shouts Garfield.

"Garfield, hush!" Challenges Rachel.

"R-Remember m-my arm?" Garfield unveils his wrists, "T-they w-were all cut up a-and stuff. No cuts n-now. N-Not even a scar. Rachel did it—"

"Rachel isn't magic! There isn't such thing as magic, Garfield! If she goes in there," I throw my finger into the door's direction. "There-There will be no magic healing. She's going to get hurt!"

"B-But."

"This isn't a comic book, Garfield! There is a dangerous person inside that room that doesn't know a tap from a punch. She shattered a wall! And you want me to throw Rachel in there?"'

"Leave him alone," Rachel interrupts, shoving me back. "This was my idea."

"C-Call her by h-her name."

"Excuse me?"

"Call her by her n-name."

"Shut up! Shut up you three!" Vic calls. "We're always yelling at each other. Always. You, Richard, back in your seat! You two, back in your seats. We're going to talk civilly, alright?"

"You know what? You can't tell me what to do. This is my own house."

"It's your dad's—so there's no kicking us out when we are required to be here under the cadet academy law. If you need to leave," he gestured, holding the door open. "Leave. Go for a walk."

I knock my cup off the table and hear it shatter, a stinging sensation that drives my fist to my chest, readying to hit the wall. That's anger. I feel it inside of me, eating at me, taking over me and my ability to see. It's hard to see, to peer through the black—the monster. A breath. Try to breath. I regain sight at the wall—it staring back at me, she staring back at me through it. I lock my eyes against the wall and try to convince myself that nothing is behind it.

"Go for a walk." Vic tells me calmly, he holding Garfield behind him. Rachel peers from his side. "I will clean up the kitchen."

"No," I tell them, my eyes flooding to me feet, "I will do it when I get back. Just—stay out of the kitchen and Starfire's room, okay? I know you have the key." I press my weight away from them and to the door, hoping my feet will catch me and take me outside, down the road, to the city. They eventually do, but not before the young boy calls my name, runs out to me, and wraps his black scarf around my neck. He told me it was warm and went back into the house. I watched him go and wondered why he didn't shut the door behind him. The light of the kitchen poured from the open door and fell to the place my feet met the first thin blanket of snow—that's weird. Snow here? It was thin and melting, but still snow on the dark, gray evening.

It was quiet.

No sirens for once—just quiet.

I watch the footprints in the slush before me and wondered how mine would look like added to the collection. I found it odd: snow by the ocean, somewhat of a geological paradox, as if the alien's coming turned the earth on its head. I think about the monster and who that is in my situation. I remember that rage in the kitchen and I cannot recall where it came from or how it came. It just did. It overtook my body and lost control my fists that were ready to punch the wall—maybe even shatter it like a monster could. I don't doubt my ability to. I've trained with monsters and fought enough villains to know how to be one—to be a monster or a villain that is.

I'm not worried about being one, though. I'm worried about not realizing that I am becoming one, having the inner demons swallow but by bit before I can address the problem. With that in mind, I recount my greatest advantage over everyone that I tend to use to my advantage. It's a great ability that allows me to observe. It's one I can manipulate to my advantage and bring down the opponent. Lately, I have been wondering if my opponents are even the bad guys. I feel dark and bitter, that monster using that ability to its benefit instead of mine. I'm supposed the hero.

So, I unravel the black scarf from my neck and blind myself. I take my greatest ability, and that is sight—the ability to see.

I know these streets. A part of training was knowing every corner from every alley, every street form every plaza, so I don't need eyes to guide my feet. I just need to think—to walk like Victor said. Victor says a lot of things and most of the time he's right. Remember that for me because it would give me hell to say that to him—or to anyone. I had met him two years ago. I had met Rachel and Garfield six months ago, right after my birthday. All unaccompanied minors were supposed to be reported to the authorities of the Cadet Agencies for recruitment, but something different happened—a secret the doctoral branch has helped me keep. Vic too.

"You look troubled," I hear a withered voice, a woman's crinkling voice, and decide to stop in my tracks. I should be passing Lateral Drive—typically there is no one here. "Your scarf is tied around your eyes. Are your eyes cold, child?"

"No—just out for a walk."

"Won't you come inside? I feel as if—" she pauses, "I feel as if we need to talk. May you take down your blind so you know my face? And know that I do not wish to inflict harm on the agency's star trainee."

I think for a moment, hunching over in my stance, and decide to take down the blind. Slowly, I untie the knot upon my neck and let the fabric fall to my chin. I do not look at her in the eyes, but watch my feet. Though, I can see that she is a small woman of graying hair and tan skin that resembled her voice, crinkled and withered. In layers of patched shawls, some red, some brown, some a patterned white, she hides her shoulders.

"How did you know who I was?"

"I know everything," she smiled a crooked grin, her lips chapped. "And know that you are troubled, blindfolding yourself like so on a dark day like this one. Are you afraid, child? I sure am."

"If you know everything, then what would you ever be afraid?"

"Hmm," she laughs, we beginning to walk down the street. There was something strange about her that set my nerves high—the same nerves the agency taught me to understand. However, I couldn't pinpoint how they felt. I was a ghost emotion and I didn't know how to feel.

"I haven't thought about that." She says, "I guess I know nothing, then." We stop at a cottage decorated in lights, pounded into the side of a brick building I swear I have never seen before. The words "Fortune Teller" were brought up in pink and yellow lights above the window.

"Don't worry, sweetie. I'm not that bad kind."

"Bad kind?"

"The one's that manipulate to thieve money from some a poor soul's pocket, you see. Thank goodness, I am not, for my sake at least. Or else, I would be in great trouble with you." She was right, if she planned to hurt me, I could easily put an end to her. I am not in any danger. That was a bad thought. I want to blind myself again.

"May I borrow your scarf, child? I am fascinated by the fabric."

I hand it to her as we step inside. It's warm inside the mysterious cottage however—cozy. I no longer feel a frost biting my cheek. A fire burns across the entrance and flickers fiery colors upon the walls cluttered with shelves, knickknacks, and others things. By the look of it, she collects antique things, such a tea pots, tea cups, bottles (some coke bottles), and vases from some far land beyond the northern Californian coast.

"Come sit by the fire, dear." She gestures to the pink speckled chair placed beside hers facing the fire. I tried my hardest to keep my guard up and did not trust the tea she placed before me. But, it was so warm—so nice.

"You wanted to talk to me."

"Well," She says, "I do have a few things to say to the Richard Grayson. But, I feel an energy—coming from you. And eagerness perhaps. Is something on your mind?

"No."

"Are you sure? It's best not to lie to someone who knows everything."

"I thought you said you knew nothing."

"It changes every now and then." I watch her in silence as she sips her tea before her. "May I ask a few questions?"

"Don't you already know the answers?"

"Do you know your answers?"

"But, I don't know the questions."

"Then might I ask?"

"Fine."

"When you graduate, what will your name be? I know this is random, but I ask this out of curiosity."

"I don't know."

"Why not? Perhaps you have a favorite animal?"

I felt silent. "It's not about that."

"Do you not wish to talk about it?"

"I messed up—was demoted—forced to take a break to do something else. Graduation doesn't look like it's in the plan anymore."

"Are you happy with this job?"

"What job? Trainee?"

"No—this guardian job?"

"It's nothing I've never done before."

"So you're not happy?"

"There's such thing as an in-between. Don't people usually go between happy and not happy?

"You are right. There is happy and there is sad. The middle is complacent. Is that you?

"Look, I-I need to go." I stand.

"I'm sorry. Did I upset you?"

"I don't have time for this."

"Your job?"

"Something like that."

"But, I haven't told you what I need to tell you."

"Look—"

"Nah-ah-ah." She pardons. "Please sit down. Take your tea cup. There is no need to drink. I can see that a strong young man like you is also clever by not taking drinks from strangers. Though, I must show you something.

Defeated, I sit back down into the chair and withdraw my cup from its little tea plate. It clanks upon the small wooden coffee table beside. I draw it beneath my nose and look to her.

"Look inside. Tell me what you see."

"I don't see anything."

"Oh child," She laughs, "Why must you continue to lie to someone who knows everything, yet nothing at the same time? You see a bird, a particular one too. Won't you tell which one it is?"

"I-I'm sorry, but I don't know."

"Precisely. You must figure it out then." I look to her, bewilderment flowing off of me like a waterfall I cannot contain. From my blank expression, it breaks through and she finds herself content. A kind smile rises between her wrinkly cheeks and she stands to walk out the door.

"For, you have figured it out just now."

"Who—" I pause. "Who are you?"

"Don't follow depictions of white garbs and harps. They will lead you astray. I can see that you don't believe in magic—and neither do I. But I use something similar to catch the attention of misguided humans. We call these gifts. Use them, do not blind yourself, train them. Anyway, you have a job to do." She hands me my black scarf and I feel odd about taking it. She walks me to the door. "Oh, and Richard," She pauses, I mid-way through the frame of the entrance, feeling the cold bite of the evening. "Remember something for me. Despite the people you take care of, you carry the story. She plays a great part; however, your story is about you."

With that, she closes the door, I to face the building, bewildered, confused, horrified, eager and satisfied. I'm ready to cry without knowing why. That aside, I found my way home that night without the use of the black scarf. Night fell without me realizing it fell. How long was I talking to the—the woman. I guess the time, late at night, and hope I am wrong.

"And that's when we ran into Richard—outside on the streets." I hear inside the apartment—I find it odd, unfamiliar. Though, I step inside. There before the Starfire's door, Gar sits, rubbing his eyes as he talks—clearly, fluently, without a stutter. My eyes quickly shift to Rachel and Vic asleep at the table. "W-We couldn't take the kitten I-I t-told you about, but I'm s-sure it was fine. It was s-summer then—not chilly. M-Maybe I can find it one day and show y-you."

"Garfield?" I say.

"R-Richard!" He lazily climbs to his feet. "Y-Your back—we-we were worried about you." I looked at the clock. Eleven at night—gone for eleven hours. What? What the hell?

"Garfield…" I say, hearing a faint clinking of chains behind the door he seemed to be talking to. "…what are you doing?"

"J-Just talking to Starfire—well, I'm t-talking."

"Through the door?"

" Yeah. Is that okay? She didn't come out all day and—"

"Yeah—uh, of course." I look at him, he a foot below my own height, and feel the need to hold onto him—something odd like that. A hug? What is a hug? Gosh, my mind. I clasp my head.

"I-Is everything o-okay?"

"Yeah, it's just late and tired. You guys will have to stay here the night. Go try out the new loft sofa. There's extra blankets in the cabinet up there." With a nod, he trudges up the stairs. I turn to Vic, head against the table surface, but decided to clean up the glass scattered upon the floor. I let the sharpness of edges prick my skin as I dispose of the shards. Those shards now in the wastebasket, I lift myself to a weary stance and lightly shove Vic awake.

"Help me carry Rachel upstairs," I ask him. Exiting sleep, drowsiness written all over his expression, he begins to nod continuously as he rises and finds his balance. Without a word, he takes her in his arms and carries her to the sofa upstairs adjacent to the one Garfield now lies upon, the young boy smug-faced and smiling. As we lay her on the couch, Garfield lays a blanket over her, she to nuzzle into the pillow out of comfort—it's rare to see her affectionate, even if it towards a pillow—in her sleep. Content with ourselves, we watch her and Vic playfully brushes Garfield's messy hair.

"Get to bed, you fool." He says, playfully pushing the kid down upon his sofa. Hushing his laughter, Garfield swings himself under his blankets and watches us leave. He will be turning twelve soon. Rachel will be thirteen.

I lay Garfield's scarf over him and mutter a "thanks." Then, I turn out the light and head down the stairs. Vic stands in the kitchen helplessly rubbing out the sleep his eyes. "You can take my bed," I tell him. "I'm going to stay awake—check on things—research and all. The door is still locked. I'm guessing the doctors didn't get in."

"Coming in the morning." He mumbles, "Everything alright? You look frazzled."

"Yeah," I make my way to the kitchen to prepare some food for her and myself. "Just—" I look to him. "I think I talked with an angel today."


	4. Chapter 4

**Maybe we are them—the superheroes in Garfield's comic books. Who says that we're not? Reality? How many times have we outgrown reality? I can heal. She has super strength, Chase can connect to people, to animals, Vic is smart, and you, you, Richard, can fight-more so than the rest of us-for all of us!"**

* * *

Touch

* * *

Chapter Four

* * *

A thought occurred to me. I stir the top ramen, letting the updraft of heat of the boiling water warm my face, and find myself lost in thought—again. The old woman asked me if I was happy with my guardian job—yet, I never told her what my job was. A wave of shivers eats at my skin and I crank the burner higher. The fire snaps up and bites my finger, the pain sending me to stumble back.

The old woman knew a lot of things I didn't have to tell her.

"Shit." I rub the redness, swiping my hand back and forth over it trying to ease the sting. The redness only shows more. I tuck my hand into my pocket and keep it away from battle against the burner. I look behind me, slinging my eyes over my shoulder and to the adjacent door. It's true. She hasn't been out of her room apparently—I wonder if she's hungry.

I stir the pot some more and thought about making myself go grocery shopping sometime soon. Maybe then, I could—well, find out what just happened. Maybe take a stroll down the same lane and find the same tavern. Though, it's not important. I tuck away the thought. A sudden ding on the timer tells me that the noodles are done and I pour the soup in a bowl, making sure to add a spoon and a fork to the mix. I come and silently knock upon the door.

No luck—I didn't think she would open it. So I carefully place my spare key, the one Victor left upon the table, into the lock and hear it undo itself with a click. Slowly, I push my back against the door, carrying the bowl of noodles in. I'm worried about my hands, they grasping the bowl. I would have to drop it to protect myself if I needed to. Maybe I should stop thinking like this. If I think this way, so will she—the mirror effect.

There she lies—asleep. The light spawning from the overheads that illuminate the doors before every apartment complex find their way into the room and fall upon her head where she sleeps. I check her condition. She's sleeping soundly, deeply—unlike before. I place the bowl next to her on the bedside table and head out after closing the blinds to block out the light.

She's sleeping soundly—strange.

I find myself waking on the stair case that morning, the corners of the steps sharp in my side. It injects me with a bit of soreness I realize as I attempt to sit up. It is morning and I try to get up with a stretch. Vic's still asleep, and judging by the empty kitchen and coldness of the air, the other two must be asleep too. By my stretch, the uncurling of my stiff leg, I knock a solid something across the floor. The sound of spilling follows. It's the bowl next to me—the soup spilled upon the floor. The one I had given to Starfire the last night.

There's a knock at the door—eight in the morning—as usual. Though, they open the door to see a boy in a stained white shirt, hunching over some spilled soup. I couldn't help, but to complete the awkward scene by waving—awkwardly.

"Uhm, hello there, Mr. Grayson—having a good morning?"

"Yeah—just spilled some things"

"Pleasant." Franks says as he and the others sit their stuff on the table as I grab a towel to soak up the excess liquid before it can stain the wood. I peak upwards to see them pull out a key and feel a breath of solemnness escape my mouth, I to close my eyes, to feel remorse. They duplicated the lock to make a key for it, didn't they?

"One-Two-One-Five." Doctor Matthews knocks on the door. "You have visitors."

"Her name is Starfire." I swish the rag in circles upon the floor. "We call her Starfire."

"Uh—that is name unauthorized by the Agency, Mr. Richard."

"Miss Starfire." Frank knocks upon the door, "Please excuse our interruption, but it's time for your checkup—"

Silence—I keep drying the floor.

"No?" Wheatley says, "We will have to let ourselves in then." Matthews peers backwards to Wheatley.

"Look," I say, "She could be changing or in the bathroom. Give her a minute for privacy."

"A day's worth for a day's worth of privacy." Says Matthews, he jabbing the new key in its lock. A heaviness comes over my eyes as they barge in—I hear her shuffle in her bed and give a slight whimper along with muffling voices protected by the thickness of the walls.

"What's going on?" Rachel shuffles down the stairs, pushing her arms through the sleeves if her black hoodie. Garfield follows.

"Stay up stairs you two."

"But—"  
"What's going on?" Vic joins.

"Can you take them home?" I tell Vic, they to protest, "Look, these things get out of hand—I," there is a yell, "and I don't want you two to see it."

"Mr. Grayson! You are needed in this room." I release a breath—somewhat of a heavy sigh— and tell the rest to stay where they are. With that, I hurry into Starfire's bedroom and find something I wished not to see: she being pinned to her bed, a tranquilizing needle being withdrawn from her arm, and her shirt–the shirt I gave her—being lifted to expose her bare chest.

I fall back and hit the wall, lashing my eyes against my arms in front of me. "What the hell are you doing?!" Garfield follows in and I mask his eyes before he can see. I pull him to my side and make him face the wall. Rachel comes in and sees this all, Starfire's shirt now on the ground. She does the same as I did and warns Vic not to come in.

"W-What's g-going on?" Gar whines.

They don't answer, but their fast pace gibberish rises on a crescendo, they groping their devices as if they were doing it to save their lives. My gaze rises upwards reluctantly to find them tracing her ribs with pencils, she currently straddling the line of consciousness.

"Weight plummeted to eighty-five pounds!" Wheatley shouts.

"Eating record—" Frank skims through his note. "Where's her eating record?!"

"Richard," shouts Matthews, "When was the last time she ate—"

"I-I," I stutter, trying to avoid the sight of her eh—well—, "Yesterday—"

"Let's get her to the hospital! Pick her up!" Her arms struggle to wrap her nakedness. I hear her cry and the sound shoots off in four directions, bounces off the thick walls and hits me in a four way collision.

"WAIT!" I block the doorway, trying my best not to look at her and be respectful. "Just wait—the hospital is just going to force feed her!"

"Get the out of the agency's way!"

"Hear me out! She's been locking herself in her room for reasons! To keep people out! People who keep forcing her to do things!"

"Like eating?! Like living?! She's staging her own death!"

"And you—we—have been forcing her stage it! She doesn't know anything except for force! She's doesn't need to be forced! That's continuing the problem! She needs to learn how to eat—how to want to eat! Just give me ten minutes—just ten minutes and I can solve things."

"Trust the person who let her starve on his watch?"

"Okay, if not me—" I turn to Rachel, placing my hands on her shoulders, sliding her in front of me. She looks upward in disbelief—I ignore it, "Then let her help!"

"How?"

"If I asked you to trust me, you wouldn't. But trust them." I gestured to the two others now in the kitchen. "Starfire knows it too. Check the records, every time Rachel's been here, Starfire has slept soundly."

"That's just chance—"

"How many times has Rachel slept over?" Frank's voice is kind, genuinely hopeful that I am correct.

"Once." I breathe.

"Get the girl in the van."

"Wait!" I block them once more, "Just ten minutes—that all Rachel needs. Just ten minutes alone with Rachel. That's it. I give you the seal of my father and my rights to be her guardian if we fail. And-and that all can go to Doctor Mann—I know how much Doctor Mann wants that."

"This is foolish," Matthews spits.

"Please—" I whisper, "Just ten minutes."

With words I cannot recall, they sat her back on her bed, she shuffle through her sheets, frantically wrapping the linen around her bareness—her bare chest. I look away and the doctors walk past me, starting the timer. Frank wishes me good luck.

"Do you need me in here?" I ask Rachel, descending down on one knee to meet her on the floor, up against the corner. She watches the girl upon the bed and shakes her head.

"No—I should be fine. Did you bring food?" I hand her all I could find on a second's notice.

"Mustard and bread?"

"It's what always disappears from the fridge when I get it from the store."

A confused look rises on her face. She gestures me to leave and I continue outside the room where the three doctors, Vic, and Garfield sit, as if ready to have some type of manly conversation. Reluctantly, I close the door behind and seat myself amongst the doctors.

"I have a question to ask," I sound challenging—forceful, "Rarely, professional doctors come in. Doctor Mann is supposed to come in only once a month. Most of the doctors I usually see are students like Wheatley and Matthews." Obviously, I am talking to Frank.

"How do you know that?" Asks Wheatley.

"I just know things. I want to apply—and if I do, could I supervise her myself? No more intrusions? No more morning night routines?"

"I—I suppose—if she pulls through of course." answers Frank. "Only with the proper training and proper supplies."

"That's no problem, they taught us half of that in the military branch, I'm here to sign up—now."

"W-Wait a minute," speaks Garfield, "D-Doesn't th-that mean you l-lose your t-trainee status?

"By switching fields, he does," answers Frank.

"B-But y-you've worked s-so hard!"

"Doesn't matter. I'm not graduating anyway."

"But, I'm sorry Mr. Grayson." The doctor says, pulling out his application displayed on his IPad. "You have to be eighteen to apply. Plus, our last spot was taken by—the name should be on her somewhere—oh! It was taken by a man by the name of Victor Stone."

I turn to the man himself, perched in his seat, eyes peering to the hole his clasped hands made placed upon the table. "Vic?"

"Oh—" Voices Doctor Frank, "Are you—are you the Victor Stone?"

"By law," Vic says, "You're not allowed to mention my name to anyone outside the doctoral branch—my pen name to use is Cyborg."

"C-Cyborg?"

Frank blushes, his expression shrinking with embarrassment, "My mistake—serves me right, being corrected by someone half my age. I become unaware whenever I speak to the commander's son here. But, this makes things easier. I was supposed to meet with the new student after this session here."

"But, why?" I ask, breaking their conversation, "You're the mechanic—"

He is silent.

"You love being the mechanic."

"You wanna be the cadet."

"You knew this would happen?"

"How wise of you to start thinking about the future." Frank compliments as I wait for him to return my glare. Instead, he focuses on his hands against the tabletop.  
"H-How much t-time d-do we h-have left?

"By my watch," says Matthews, "Two more minutes."

"Would you re-enter the agency even if we failed this, here." I ask Vic.

"We won't," he peers over, "so yes."

A sudden creaking grabs our attention—Rachel peers through the door. We all stand to hear her and what she has to say, but instead, she steps around the door, meets us in the kitchen, and closes Starfire's door behind her.

"Good choice with the mustard."

"So she's eating?" I say.

"Yeah, but can you come in?" Without looking for some kind of approval, I make my way around the table, muttering if everything was alright underneath my breath as I passed her. We enter her room. Upon her bed, Starfire sits, hunched forward, brows askew, conveying an air of concern or curiosity—something like that.

"He's different than the doctors" Rachel begins to speak, her voice low, easy, and somewhat emotionless. I stand straight and face her, buckling my lip down. It was like we were in the hospital again—a sight I did not like. "I know it's hard to trust—believe me, I know—and you have reasons not to. But, know that here is better—with him, it is better."

"I know," she whispers—her voice very weak. I watch her fold, she to pull her legs to her chest. She looks to me and I try my best to keep eye contact. The knock at the door takes my attention away. Time's up, I assume.

"Stay here," I tell Starfire, slowly backing away with Rachel beside me. I place my hand on her shoulder and promised myself to thank her. "They'll probably come in and see for themselves. I'll be here the whole time, so don't worry. They will leave and won't bother you today or for many more days."

"Can we have your permission to let them in?" Rachel says. At her nod, I return to the kitchen and welcome the others in. Though, it's hard to bring myself to look at Vic as he passes my frame.

Five hours have passed since then and I haven't made too great of an effort to talk to her besides bringing her a lot of food—everything in my pantry at least. She seems quiet, shy, and still a bit distrusting. But what can I expect? I see the stress on her expression and realize what it does with every passing moment. It's harder for her to walk. She tried to get up herself, but I requested for her to sit down—and I hate this: being the superior side of tug-a-war. Wasn't that was Doctor Mann wanted us to be? Two clashing forces that will neutralize the other. I wonder where he is and what he thinks about the latest news concerning Starfire. With a few days, Vic will be the doctor coming in and out of here. I'm still burdened by this choice—a burden that will probably be explained at a later time—not now. I can barely think as it is.

With the doctors, he left, happy to take Rachel and Garfield with him. I keep remembering the conversation I had with Doctor Frank: _"Richard, please know that we and the agency aren't the bad guys. We are just following orders meant to guarantee her recovering. "_

He said this as he passed me on his way out. I believe him—despite my emotions now. After all, they did help Rachel and Garfield—that is another story that may come up some time too. As I clean the kitchen, I clasp my head and long to sleep somewhere that's not a staircase. It's only five in the evening, but the sky is dark. Despite what the clock says, it could be nine or ten.

From under her doorway, I see the lack of light breaking through the opening and assume that she's asleep with the lights off—sleeping soundly. I should be as well.

That night I didn't dream of angels and did not hear a triumphant choir nor saw pillars of white marble. Blinding lights that would make me want to cry and hide my head in fear of being blinded was absent too. However, I thought of those elements—the elements of heaven—often. I positioned my memories of the fortune teller in my head for me to dream about that night in hope of concluding answers. But, it didn't happen. For now, I decide to tuck away the memory of that night with the fortune teller—if it even was a night, if it even happened at all. That's my conclusion.

Though, I am glad I came home when I did—that I even came home at all. With that thought, I replay what happened today and thought about what would happen tomorrow—or the next day. We were winging it—I'm not used to that. I was never trained to go off a whim and write the future with the actions I make in the present. Everything was always planned: scheduled days to train, scheduled days to rest, scheduled days to fight, scheduled days to patrol, each day spent closer to getting to graduation.

I lie wide awake in my bed now. My estimation is that it's two in the morning—or something like that. I hope the night neared the dawn and that I would see a small trace of the morning come through my windows soon. But, the darkness prolongs its stay. I try to stare at it—if darkness is even a thing to stare at—and hope I would find myself asleep soon.

And, I found myself drifting.

...drifting…

…drifting…

A sudden cry—a whimper that prolongs the sound of hysteria. I wake and curiously pull myself from my bed to suddenly get hit with a wave of sobbing flooding out from a room far beyond the kitchen. Violently, it ricochets off my walls and thrusts me from my bed, I to fly to the door, grope the handle, anxiously trying to pull open a door that seemed not to budge. At its open, I come to the kitchen, then to the door, it to come open at my push. She shoves he hands over head, she on the floor, and cries—I running to her, calling her name.

To wake her, to wake her, I grab her shoulder—and I feel myself die, her fist in my stomach, my stomach in my throat, my blood coming from my mouth, my back violently hitting a wall, debris of some kind to blow out. Oh God—I grab my stomach and writhe—no energy to grab myself, to pull my hands up, to defend myself, to die.

_"__Name." _

_"__Richard Grayson."_

_"__Parent's name."_

_"…"_

_"__Parent's name."_

_"__Mary and Jon Grayson—We are down Lethe Lane and at the right of Wednesday Avenue . Green house. Red roof. Seven windows—"_

_"__Son, we have no record—"_

_"__House number 9355. Two bathrooms, one for my parents, one for me. Two rooms—two rooms, I promise."_

_"__Kid—no one has lived there for three years."_

_"__I promise! I'm not lying! I live there and go there every day with my mom and dad after school. They walk me home. They walk me home!"_

_"__Come on—settle down kid."_

_"__I'm not crazy! Please, I'm not crazy! I have a family! Get that needle away!"_

_"__Shhhh. It will all be okay. Doesn't that feel good? Huh? Now go to sleep. Go to sleep." _

"Richard?" A voice sounds! "Richard! You're not speaking! You are doing the bleeding! I am sorry! I am so sorry!"

"My family was killed by gang members—"

"—I was seven then—and I watch them die—right in front of me. They were killed right in front of me. Three years later, the agency found me and reported me in as an unaccompanied minor—forced me into the institution—"

"—when I graduated from the junior academy, it didn't take me long to find them—to kill them. I was twelve then. I didn't mean to, but I did it. So, I guess I did meant to. They—they fell of that Berthold tower—like you did."

Silence.

"Victor doesn't know. Neither does Rachel or Garfield—but they always wonder why I never play the good guy—the hero—that I only do what's on my instructions list and do them well to get by, to rise in rankings."

Silence.  
"For some reason, I can't stop talking," I tell the ceiling. "I know you're there. You're underneath the window where the outside lights meet the carpet. You're always are. But, don't say anything—you don't need to."

"You—you are bleeding. Tell me what I must do—"

"Yeah, I'm bleeding." I smile. "Do you ever bleed?"

"N-Nonsense." She says. "You are speaking nonsense. Please I—"

"You live if you bleed. We call it being human if you bleed. H-Humans are above animals. And I-I've been an animal for s-so long. B-But, I'm bleeding again. D-Do you see it?"

"H-Humans can change species?"

"No—" I start to choke, to cry, smiling, dying, "B-But they can change heart."

_ "__Come on—settle down kid."_

_"__I'm not crazy! Please, I'm not crazy! I have a family! Get that needle away!"_

_"__Shhhh. It will all be okay. Doesn't that feel good? Huh? Now go to sleep. Go to sleep. Go to sleep. Go to sleep. Go to sleep. Go to sleep. Go to sleep. Go to sleep. Go to sleep. Go to sleep. " _


End file.
